Touch
by sbj
Summary: all it takes sometimes is one little touch to break a girl. . . re-rated (originally pg-13) but story has remained unchanged


i HAD to get this out of my system. it came to me as i was reading the paper sunday morning O_o and it screamed to be written so i ran upstairs, forsook my homework, and wrote nonstop for roughly 2 or 3 hours, which is actually pretty good time for a story, believe it or not.   
  
but that aside, this is a fic involving a depressed teenage buttercup (sorry!) and an overly dark and twisted butch (sorry again!). it's not sickly sweet; in fact you'll probably just find it sick, but it is, in my opinion, one of the WORST possible ways the rrb could exact revenge on the ppg, and our little green girl is the victim here.  
  
perhaps this is a testament to all the romances being written (i know i can't really speak; i write 'em too ^^;) but i've only seen a few where an rrb return fic is dark and serious and. . . um, slightly disturbing. . . yeah.   
  
so no, it ain't a romance, but in a dark and twisted way you COULD consider it a romance. . . but if you do you're a preeeeetty farked up individual.  
  
ignore all typos. i know they're in there somewhere.  
  
rated for content. should i up it to "r"? you'll see what i mean.  
  
standard disclaimers apply. review if you choose. thank you for your time *bows out*  
  
-jen  
  
  
  
  
*Touch*  
~-songbirdjen-~  
  
  
"Say, Buttercup, you wanna sit and watch a movie with us?" Blossom offered, a sympathetic look on her face.  
  
Her voice snapped Buttercup awake, and she blinked blearily, yawning as she looked up from her history text. She'd been stuck on the same page for an hour almost, drifting in and out of consciousness. Turning towards Blossom, she watched with little interest as her sister innocently held up a video in one hand, the remote in the other.  
  
"No," Buttercup said slowly, shaking her head. "That's okay. I think I'll go upstairs." Her black hair dangled briefly in front of her eyes as she stood, and, leaving the history book where it was on the coffee table, curtly nodded to her sisters, and floated up the stairs.   
  
As she neared her bedroom door, she heard Bubbles whisper, "Is Buttercup okay?"  
  
"She had a bad day, I think," Blossom whispered back.  
  
Bubbles sighed. "What else is new. . . "  
  
Buttercup gritted her teeth and twisted the doorknob, pulling herself into her room. As she leaned her back against the door, closing it shut, she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, sighing.   
  
"Another bad day," she said quietly. "Story of my life."  
  
She picked herself up and trudged to her bed, sweeping the clothes and papers off the surface before letting herself fall facedown on the bedspread, wishing she could just sink into it and disappear forever. . .   
  
The wind whistled faintly at the closed window.  
  
Buttercup suddenly blinked, eyes darting from one corner to another, still lying on the bed. A shudder ran down her spine.  
  
'He's here,' she thought, and just at that moment the springs beside her head squeaked faintly, an invisible body reaching its hand toward her cheek.   
  
"Good evening, my pet," a voice whispered, resonating in her head as what felt like a cool breeze brushed the hair away from her face. "Did you miss me?"  
  
"Stop teasing me," Buttercup muttered, and rolled away, onto her side at the foot of the mattress.  
  
Another shudder ran down her back, and this time she knew it was his hand brushing against her bone. When the voice spoke again it mocked her.  
  
"Now why would I want to tease you after such a day?"  
  
"It's been a REALLY shitty day for me, Butch," she growled, standing up.  
  
"I know," Butch's voice said, though it didn't have an ounce of sympathy or kindness in it. "I was there."  
  
"You're always there." Buttercup knelt and dug into one of the piles of clothes surrounding her bed, pulling out a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. "I'm going to take a bath. I don't want you coming in," she said quietly, blushing a bit.  
  
Suddenly as she opened the door something pushed it back shut, and she felt the heat of his unseen body pressing against hers.  
  
"You LIAR," the voice hissed, deep and husky against her face, and she shivered. Something played with the button of her jeans, tugging at it. "I know PRECISELY what you want," and then that something lifted her shirt and pulled her close-  
  
"Stay here," Buttercup ordered, her voice cracking as she pushed past the invisible barrier and flung open the door. She was breathing heavily and her heart was pounding as she paused in the hall and looked back at her open doorway.  
  
Even though she saw nothing, she knew he was there, watching her.  
  
Tracing every curve of her body; God knows he knew it well enough.  
  
Smiling, though she couldn't see it.  
  
She felt it.  
  
"Whatever you say," his voice teased, and the door creaked as it slowly shut, its final click echoing in the hallway.  
  
Downstairs her sisters watched their movie, completely unaware of the invisible boy she had waiting behind her bedroom door.  
  
***  
  
Buttercup leaned her head against the back of the tub and sank into the water, coated by a film of bubbles and foam. She normally didn't take baths, much less bubble baths, but she felt she needed the comfort only the bath would give and the visual security the bubbles provided should anybody who wasn't stopped by walls or locked doors venture in. . .   
  
She blushed. 'Though it's not like anything he hasn't seen before,' she said to herself in her head, and she blushed redder.  
  
She tried to think of other things, like how her day had been, but she remembered how crappy she felt and thinking about a bad day more or less defeated the purpose of taking a bath to comfort oneself.  
  
So instead she thought of Butch.  
  
He wasn't really there, not in the physical sense, at least. He hadn't been ever since she and her sisters had defeated him and his brothers back when they were five.  
  
But one day when she was thirteen or fourteen, filled with angst and anger and self-loathing and thinking about how shitty her life was she had suddenly felt something like a presence in the room, and it had been him.  
  
She had panicked; alone in the house with no one there to help her fight an enemy she couldn't see-  
  
But he hadn't wanted to fight, though by all means he would've won, he'd only wanted to listen, and told her about how he had watched her that day and seen what she'd been through and how he was ALWAYS there to see, see HER. . .   
  
And from there some strange, twisted sort of companionship was born; the talks they had were never ones where they gave each other advice, or comforted each other; she spoke and he listened, though sometimes, no, MANY times it seemed to her he was only there to torture her, as if he could do nothing but smile and tease her cruelly as she relayed to him the events of her miserable days. . .   
  
But he was SOMEone, all the same, someone there, someone who listened, who heard when nobody would listen nor hear. . .   
  
Only a few years after she learned of his pseudo-existence she began to notice he was becoming more daring when he was with her, getting closer, freely touching her, whispering with that menacing smile she always felt on his face that he liked the way she looked, the way she moved, the way the curves of her body felt pressed against him and how sometimes he liked to tell her that he could make her feel better and forget everything and wouldn't she like to feel like that, to feel like she was loved, to feel GOOD. . .   
  
And many times she blushed and told him no, because she wasn't like that, she was a perfect little girl and didn't need sex to feel good about herself, but sometimes. . . sometimes. . .   
  
. . . sometimes she wanted the acceptance of another someone, of another ANYONE, and it didn't matter, she told herself the first time she gave in, the first time she let him touch her, it didn't matter really because she was lonely and needed someone and it DID feel good that first time, and all the other times after that felt good too. . .   
  
But in the end she always felt ashamed, not good, and she began to wonder sometimes if he really DID exist, if he wasn't just a manifestation of her subconscious looking for a friend, a kindred spirit, but he was neither, so maybe she wasn't healthy, or sane, maybe she was CRAZY-  
  
The door opened and her eyes flew to it, watching as it shut and relocked itself, the muffled noise from downstairs briefly becoming clearer before Butch closed it shut.  
  
Her heart started drumming against her ribcage.  
  
"I thought I told you to stay in the room," she whispered fiercely, submerging herself further in the water till it was up to her neck. She didn't like not being able to see where he was, especially when she was like this-  
  
There. He smiled; she felt it in the room, chilling her skin.  
  
"I HEARD you," he taunted. The water at her feet skimmed a trail, circling as if a hand was playing in it.  
  
"I didn't say anything."  
  
"I heard you thinking about me," his voice said, and it sounded like he was getting closer because she felt a light breeze brush against her half-closed eyelids. "You think DIRTY, pet. . . "  
  
Out of the corner of her eye she saw two shadows against the wall, one hers, one his, though only one real person was physically visible in the room.  
  
"I don't like it when you call me that." She saw the shadow and heard him laugh unkindly.  
  
"Of course you like it. You like this, too," he sneered, and watching the shadows she saw him part her lips with his and lick at her teeth with his tongue, and she willingly opened her mouth and allowed his to explore it, though it didn't feel ANYTHING like a real kiss should; it felt like a cold zephyr and winter air in her mouth, on her lips, almost painful, but watching their shadows she could pretend it was something else, something warm, something sweet, but he was neither of those things. . .   
  
She pulled away, gasped for air. She felt him smiling again.  
  
"I forgot. You have to breathe."  
  
The water lapped at the sides, foam drifting back and forth. After a moment a bit of a layer of bubbles were skimmed off, and she saw his hand's shadow brushing away the soap covering her chest, bit by bit by bit, till he was only a few layers away from exposing her-  
  
"Stop," she said abruptly, and his hand halted.  
  
The bubbles remained where they were, motionless.  
  
"You don't mean that." His shadow smirked. "Besides," his voice lowered, and his shadow showed his head bringing itself close to hers and a light wind ruffled her hair as he teased, mimicking her " 'It's not like anything I haven't seen before.' "  
  
He chuckled, and she shuddered. "Please LEAVE."  
  
He ignored her. "We haven't done this in the bathtub," he wondered aloud, or maybe in his head, she couldn't be sure, but a ripple of water suddenly formed at the surface above her hip. ". . . YET."  
  
"No," Buttercup warned weakly, shaking her head. "Can't you wait in the room till I'm done?"  
  
"Are you implying you're saving it for the bed, little one?"  
  
"I'm not implying anything. I don't want you in here." Buttercup reached for the shower curtain and yanked it shut.  
  
He sounded amused. "Whatever you say," and within moments she heard the door open and close again, its click reverberating off the tiled walls.  
  
***  
  
When she walked into the room she saw the closet door opening, and the clothes parting to reveal a short white silk nightie hanging in the middle. She trudged forward and reached a hand for it, stroking its soft material.  
  
"You never wear it," she heard Butch whisper next to her, smiling as he always did, teasing her. "I asked you to buy it and you never once wore it."  
  
What she imagined were both his hands lifting up the edges of her shirt raised themselves to her back and pressed against her bare shoulder blades.  
  
"Wear it tonight," he said, sending a chill flurry on her neck, and she unconsciously tugged it off its hanger and let him draw her to the bed, barely resisting. "I'll help you change," he whispered sinisterly, and laughed, tugging at her shirt harder.  
  
"No, I don't want to wear it," she protested, and pushed it away from her onto the floor. "I'll never wear it. I don't wear those things."  
  
He snickered. "Not even for me."  
  
"I don't do anything for you," she snapped, and suddenly there was this pressure on her hips, as if someone was straddling her, and she felt herself being pushed back to lie down and his legs wrapping around hers, grinding their hips together.  
  
Chills laced every part of her lower body and she blushed.  
  
"You like to do THIS for me," he jeered, and she felt a feather-light touch on the side of her breast.  
  
She closed her eyes and tipped her head back and parted her mouth to gasp for air so she could say "Not now, not now, wait I don't want to right now," but she suddenly was engulfed in cold air again and knew he was kissing her. Fiercely, too, because her mouth felt like a blizzard and he must've been kissing her rough but he always liked to do things rough-  
  
She tore away, lips blue from the cold. "Tomorrow! I'll wear it tomorrow night," she gasped, clutching at the bedspread. "I can't. . . can't do this now."  
  
There was a moment of absolute quiet.  
  
Then the pressure lifted off her and she exhaled.   
  
"Good girl," Butch said quietly, sounding triumphant. She sat up and buried her head in her hands. The bed creaked faintly and she felt his presence sitting behind her. "Tell me about your day, my pet," he teased, pulling back strands of her wet hair.  
  
"It was a shitty day," Buttercup mumbled.  
  
"I know. I was there."  
  
"If you were there then there's no point in me telling you."  
  
"I like to hear your voice."  
  
"You hear me whether I speak or not."  
  
He laughed. "Tell me about your day, my pet," he repeated.  
  
She sighed. "Where do you want me to start?"  
  
"Start with what time you woke up."   
  
"At 8:30. I was supposed to be on the court by 7:00. I had to skip breakfast and on my way out the door dropped my bag in a fucking anthill." She squeezed her eyes shut. "Goddamn ants."  
  
He continued to play with her hair. "Go on."   
  
She swallowed. "I was kicked off the basketball team for missing practice and failing two classes. I bombed my test in Chemistry. The team left me behind when we were all supposed to go out for lunch, so I dumped their gym bags in the toilets. Felt better for awhile."  
  
"Mm-hmm. I notice you don't like to take showers after practice like the other girls."   
  
She tensed. "That's because I know you're watching me."  
  
He snickered. "You could tell me not to."  
  
"You wouldn't listen. You're always watching me."  
  
His cold, invisible arms snaked around her stomach.. "Clever girl."  
  
Silence.  
  
"I'm listening."  
  
"Then. . . " she hesitated. She was afraid to say it out loud, because she thought about how sometimes late at night when everyone else was asleep and the door was closed and the lights were off he liked to slip between her sheets and touch her and on the off-chance that he truly did care for her maybe he would be offended-  
  
"I know what you're thinking," he mocked in a sing-song voice, and she blushed, ashamed, as he laughed. "Who did he ask again?"  
  
"Heather," she whispered.  
  
"My poor little pet," Butch cooed, and undid the tie of her drawstring pants. "Saved yourself for Mark and he goes and asks the popular pretty one to the dance." He loosened the knit string around her waist. "I'll bet you'd like for HIM to do this to you, wouldn't you?" he prodded, and she could hear him sneer.  
  
She shook her head vigorously, blushing again. "No. . . "  
  
'I'm not like that, I'm innocent, innocent-'  
  
"So innocent you let someone like me make a fallen woman out of you before you even had time to stop being a girl," Butch finished cruelly, his ever-present smile heard in his tone. "Little Buttercup at fifteen, alone and scared and no one else but me to keep her company. . . but you're seventeen now. Have you REALLY been letting me 'touch' you for so long?" He snorted.  
  
Buttercup closed her eyes and turned her head to her shoulder. "I thought we were talking," she whimpered.  
  
"I'm done listening. I want to make you feel better."  
  
"But it doesn't make me feel better," she whispered, feeling an invisible body press her to the mattress.   
  
"Oh, but I think it does," he protested, laughing. "Think about it. You're off the team, you failed the class, you lost your friends and your chance with Mark. All you have is me, all you EVER have is me."  
  
"What about my sisters," she whispered, trying not to give in, not to give in. . .   
  
"Your sisters can't make you feel like THIS, can they?" he hissed in her hair, and TOUCHED her, and her eyes snapped wide open and she gasped.  
  
"N-no. . . " she admitted, eyes searching for his face, but of course there was none, only a cold empty blast of air on her skin. "They can't. . . "  
  
Her eyes flickered to the open door, hearing her sisters' voices. "But we can't, they'll hear. . . they'll hear us-"  
  
"Then we'll have to be very quiet," Butch explained darkly, and the door shut by itself. The lights dimmed, and the blinds at the window turned, the light from the stars streaming into the room.   
  
There never was a moon when they did this. . .   
  
"I'm sorry, let me rephrase that: YOU'LL have to be very quiet, my pet. . . "  
  
And he slid her clothes from her body and laughed and whispered over and over again to her about the team, about school, about Mark and friends and everything and she felt miserable, so miserable that she gave in, quietly and wordlessly, and as the cold engulfed her and chilled her to the bone she closed her eyes against the tears and pretended he was alive, alive and warm and sweet and beautiful and everything he wasn't, because she would've liked to have been touched by someone like that, to be taken again and again by someone whose touch was real and comforting and made her feel better really, because his never did, but she could pretend that it did and in doing so she really did feel better, she really did feel loved and good. . .   
  
She meant it when the tears spilled from her eyes and into her hair, into the pillows, she meant it when she earnestly arched her back to meet the oncoming cold, she meant it when she gasped, "I love you Butch," and prayed with all her heart she'd hear him say, just once, just once "I love you too" but all he ever did was laugh. . .   
  
So when the cold finally, finally left her she felt even colder, and then he'd laugh again and disappear completely, leaving her behind, leaving her feeling spent and broken and crying on her bed that wasn't hers but his, naked and worthless and shattered, loneliness and guilt settling in the room as she heard him say to her over and over he hated her but he was all SHE had so she might as well get used to that and stop telling him she loved him because it didn't make a difference either way.  
  
*end*  
  
  
yes, that is the end. don't ask me to write a sequel; this piece doesn't want one to be written, so don't even bother asking.  
  
work on "a skirt for sunday evening" will pick up sometime when i get through all my school crap. check for updates on status, not story, @ www.livejournal.com/users/songbirdjen.  
  
ah, i liked writing the ending to this. gives me chills every time i read it. i feel bad for what i did to buttercup. what about you? review, dammit. . . or don't. i don't dictate your lives. . . yet. *evil laughter fades away* 


End file.
